


i was born to love you

by eckarius



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley and Aziraphale live together don’t ask questions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Queen Soundtrack, Sushi, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, crowley is bad with emotions, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 14:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19175131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eckarius/pseuds/eckarius
Summary: In some ways, Crowley doesn’t go fast enough for Aziraphale.(The husbands are locked out of their flat, Crowley confesses his feelings, fluff ensues)





	i was born to love you

The faint  _ plink!  _ of pebbles against the window has failed to stir Aziraphale for the past twenty minutes. 

He’s certainly home, there’s a still-roaring fire which is giving a warm glow that Crowley can even see from two stories down. The angel was too paranoid to leave a fire going when he wasn’t there to tend to it, not after the horrific scene Crowley painted for him when his bookshop had burned to black rubble. Thankfully, it had been restored when Adam had rebooted the world, but strangely, Aziraphale had insisted on selling the shop. [1] So, now his dusty collection is piled to the high ceilings of Crowley’s flat, since the bookshelves haven’t yet come in. [2]

Crowley materialises another pebble in his palm, perfectly crafted to be thrown, despite the fact that he can simply manipulate it to hit the window no matter how poorly he throws it. “ANGEL!” He yells after it  _ plunks _ the window, likely leaving another scuff mark he’ll have to miracle away later. The amount of effort he’s putting into waking Aziraphale is more exertion than he’s given to most activities since the Apocalypse was averted. [3]

Inside the flat, Aziraphale stirs briefly in his cushioned wingback before flicking his eyes open. It felt like he closed his eyes just a second ago, no more than a few minutes. “ANGEL!” He winces at the sound of Crowley’s screaming below. If he has neighbours, hopefully they can’t hear him. Aziraphale rises from the chair, the faint creaking of his bones serenading him. “Gone native,” indeed.

He leaves the warmth of the fire, the comforting closed-in feeling of his hordes of books, to the front door. He didn’t forget to pull on his tartan slippers, they muffle his footsteps as he pads down the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and to the door’s peephole. The cold ambiance of the hallway makes Aziraphale shiver, and he tugs his robe closed between his chill hands. Outside, he spots Crowley leaning lazily against the Bentley. [4] He turned the car on at some point, Freddie Mercury is cooing about being born to take care of somebody or the other, and Aziraphale can feel the bass vibrating the ground even through his slippers. There are a good few apologies in order, now.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale storms out onto the walkway, meeting him halfway between the complex and the Bentley.

“Aziraphale! I was wondering when my screaming was going to get your attention. Do I have to conjure up fireworks and an elephant parade to wake you up?” His arms are crossed over his chest, and Aziraphale can’t say he remembers Crowley owning a leather jacket. [5]

Aziraphale stammers a moment, befuddled by the assertion that it would take one elephant, let alone a  _ parade _ of them, to wake him up. He’s not the one who slept through a good chunk of the nineteenth century.

Though, Crowley was a demon, so he had to be a bit dastardly every now and again to keep from combusting. So, he introduced Aziraphale to sleep, a pleasure which he rarely indulged in. Sleeping wasn’t his idea of a fun time, laying motionless for hours and hallucinating himself putting on a one-man performance of  _ The Sound of Music.  _ [6]

“Well, why were you throwing rocks and screaming at...” He trails off, searching his person for his pocket watch.

“3:28 am. I lost my keys to the flat.” Crowley reaches over, flicking a rather bothersome piece of lint off the lapel of Aziraphale’s robe.

“Ah, thank you. But why didn’t you just miracle your way in, my dear?” He ties his robe closed, and Crowley groans, looking over his shoulder.

Shoot, something had to be wrong. Perhaps they’re being discoporated anyway, despite their little ruse. “We proofed the complex, it can’t be miracled open anymore. Keeps your people and mine out, remember?”

“Oh, right. This sleeping business, does it always make you so forgetful?” He watches Crowley turn away, opening his car and fishing something out.

“It must. Here, I got you something. A little present for keeping your hands off of my plants so far.” [7]

He plucks something from the passenger seat, and holds it behind his back before offering it to Aziraphale. It’s in a plastic carrying tray, arranged on a sheet of seaweed, with a few bright red packets of soy sauce placed next to a small scoop of wasabi.

Aziraphale takes it, a giddy smile on his face. He glances between the takeaway sushi and Crowley, who’s running his hand through his hair and avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. It makes something drop in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Is there something wrong, dear?” Aziraphale notices Crowley looking much more nervous than he’s ever seen him before. Perhaps the Apocalypse is starting once again.

Crowley shakes his head. “No. Nothing you need to worry about, angel. Shall we go inside?”

“Well, either there’s something wrong and you can’t tell me, or there’s something wrong and you don’t want to tell me.” Unfortunately for Crowley, Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot. He miracles the sushi back into the car, and takes off Crowley’s sunglasses.

“Let me see your eyes,” Aziraphale’s voice breaks when Crowley looks away.

“Let’s go inside. I’m freezing out here. I’m a demon, and I’m freezing! Amazing how that works, hm?” Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale retracts his hand from Crowley’s personal bubble.

He snaps his fingers now, another pair of sunglasses are situated on the bridge of his nose in an instant. Aziraphale turns, fishing around in his robe pocket. He checks the pockets on his tartan pyjama trousers.  _ Uh oh. _

He stands at the front door, his back to Crowley. His shoulders tense, and it gives him away.

“You forgot the keys?” Crowley sighs.

“Yes, it seems I did.” Aziraphale’s befuddled tone returns, and Crowley opens his car.

“And you can’t call our tennant to let us in.” He groans, picking up the carry out tray and nearly tossing it into his backseat. [8] Instead, he sets it down in the backseat, leaving the passenger seat open for Aziraphale.

“You could,” he keeps his voice hushed, which drives Crowley a bit mad trying to pick up his voice over the cars rushing down their street and the horns a few blocks over on either side, “but I doubt she’s awake.”

Crowley slides into the driver’s seat, and smacks his forehead against it, the horn blaring and causing a sea of grumbles from everyone within a ten kilometre radius. Aziraphale sits down in the passenger seat, decidedly avoiding looking at Crowley. His staring would likely just upset Crowley further.

Aziraphale drums his fingers above his knees, wondering if he should say anything to Crowley. And Crowley grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. They both refuse to say anything to each other, let alone look at each other.

Crowley turns the radio back on, at some point he turned it off but he doesn’t remember when. Same song, “I Was Born to Love You.” [9] Crowley had taken a liking to the song, just like “You’re My Best Friend,” it reminded him of Aziraphale. They may as well have been born to love each other, 6000 years of near-constant run-ins couldn’t be coincidental. Though, at some point free will had taken over, and they simply found their way traveling as far as they needed to confirm to themselves that yes, they were still both okay, and Heaven, Hell, nor Fate had tried any funny business by separating them. [10]

Crowley taps his finger against the steering wheel, glancing at Aziraphale via his peripheral. Aziraphale is smiling pleasantly, but he isn’t sure if it’s because of the song, or he thought of some good deed he did at some point in the Victorian Era.

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice barely resonates above the ballad, but Aziraphale turns to him immediately, that smile still planted on his face. “Sorry for getting snippy.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Water under the bridge, or so they say.”

Crowley leans back in his seat, his hand still resting on the wheel. “Well, you moving in’s been tough. Not used to the company, you know. And there was something I was wanting to say to you, but I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

Just as he says that, the ghost of Freddie Mercury decides to compromise Crowley. Somehow, the radio’s volume turns itself up. [11] If Crowley subconsciously did that himself, he didn’t know. “I wanna love you, I love every little thing about you—”

Crowley physically turns it down, looking absolutely exasperated. Aziraphale laughs, an airy sort of giggle, and makes Crowley just that much more angry at Freddie Mercury. He’d make a better demon than Crowley, now that he thinks about it. But that’s for another time.

“You’re going to say something?” Aziraphale is trying his best to hide his anxiety behind a casual exterior, but the song managed to say what he hadn’t even thought of uttering to Crowley. [12]

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale, an expectant look tainting his face. God, Satan, whoever, why is “I love you” such a hard thing to say? Sometimes he dreamed that he’d look over at Aziraphale, they’d hold a stare, and that was all he needed to do to convey his feelings. But instead, he got sushi from Aziraphale’s favourite takeaway place after he strolled around St. James’s Park, scrolling through Queen song after Queen song on his phone, searching for the proper one to set the mood. One that Aziraphale hasn’t heard two dozen times.

“Well, the song...” Crowley gestures at the radio, then rests his cheek on the steering wheel, looking up at Aziraphale. “You’ve got lovely eyes, you know.”

Aziraphale jolts, like he’s been consumed by a static shock; pink flushes across his cheekbones. “Why, thank you. I quite like yours, too.”

The song is still playing, Crowley set it to repeat on this wonderful application he discovered. [13] Aziraphale’s comment makes Crowley less uncomfortable with the idea of actually saying the damn words now. Behind that outer naïveté, he definitely knows what Crowley’s trying to say, and he wants him to say it.

“Look, I love you. I don’t just mean ‘I think of you as my brother’ type of shite, either. I thought that was all it was for a couple centuries, but I was sorely mistaken. You moving in just forced me to acknowledge it. I nearly let the Apocalypse go without saying anything, we would have died and you wouldn’t know.” Crowley can’t say he’s ever been so personal, but who better to bare your soul to than your best friend of 6000 years?

Neither of them say anything for a prolonged moment. Aziraphale stares at Crowley, and Crowley presses his forehead into the steering wheel, and there goes the horn again. “Turn that down!” Someone yells from a neighbouring flat complex, but he ignores it. 

He’s sure he’s said too much, that admitting it is what will finally bulldoze their friendship. And realistically, he thought that was all he’d have with Aziraphale for the rest of eternity. Maybe he wished they’d be lovers, Hell, they could try out that marriage thing humans are so invested in. But, that was just blind optimism, something totally uncharacteristic for Crowley.

He looks over at Aziraphale, thankful his shades are covering his eyes, threatening to start misting over if he or Aziraphale say nothing in the next ten seconds. Crowley will walk out of the car in ten seconds. He’ll abandon the thought of ever having Aziraphale as anything beyond a friend and confidant.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Freddie sings “You are the one for me, I am the man for you, you were made for me.”

Four.

Three.

Two.

Aziraphale clears his throat. Nothing follows.

He looks a bit choked up. He’s not sure what to say, either. But there’s something pained about Crowley’s otherwise blank face. Everything is wrong and Aziraphale needs to make it right. He feels flashes, pink and red, everything is warm, welcoming, loving. He’s got to do it.

He leans over the gap between them both, placing an awkward kiss on Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale brings a hand up, cupping Crowley’s cheek. His skin is hot, just as he was hoping.

Crowley pulls himself free, and behind his shades his eyes are darting across Aziraphale’s face. “No. Wait.”

They poof into the backseat, Aziraphale only half a centimetre from crushing the takeaway. Crowley smirks, pulling Aziraphale back in by his waist and kissing him quite gently. The amount of times he’s fantasised about this was immeasurable [14], but it’s what he’d hoped for. Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair, just how soft he is, it’s immaculate. His hands slide beneath Aziraphale’s robe, daring to slither underneath his pyjama shirt as well, until the angel jumps back, pushing the takeaway with him.

“Sorry. Just, not sure if I’m quite ready for that yet.” There’s so much guilt in his eyes, and while Crowley is a bit upset, that doesn’t mean they don’t still have a good while to get there.

Crowley nods, petting Aziraphale’s cheek. “Of course, angel.”

Aziraphale picks up the takeaway and smiles, miracling up some chopsticks and popping off the plastic lid. “Are you fine with eating in the car?” He holds out the chopsticks to Crowley, who nods, taking a pair and trying to match how Aziraphale holds his. It takes a great amount of effort to simply pick up a roll, let alone get it to his mouth without it falling onto the floor of the car.

Crowley had no idea how his confession would go exactly, but he was pretty happy with it, all things considered. The best he could have hoped for was Aziraphale reciprocating, he’d read so much into those longing stares, and some self-doubting part of him thought those stares were normal, he was just setting himself up to be heartbroken. 

Finally, Aziraphale wouldn’t have to rely on tender gazes to convey his love towards Crowley. And he didn’t think today would be the day he’d finally say anything, more appropriately do anything, he expected it to be in the cell in France, or in that church during World War II, or in his car in the sixties, but it’s better incredibly belated than never.

In some ways, Crowley doesn’t go fast enough for Aziraphale.

 

***

 

[1] It briefly made Crowley believe Hell finally made good on its promise to freeze over, because in what universe would a sane and right-minded Aziraphale sell his bookshop?

[2] Because somebody forgive that he refuses to buy cheap shelving from Ikea that Aziraphale will insist on assembling by hand, “because it’s more fun that way.”

[3] Not including the body-swapping, of course.

[4] Since the rebooting of the world, he’s relied solely on taxis and ride sharing companies to get him around London, but it didn’t hurt keeping the Bentley around (and that he found himself to look quite nice leaning on it).

[5] Though he can’t say he dislikes it, either.

[6] As Crowley later told him, that would be a textbook case of a nightmare. While humans would cringe at dreams where they show up to school on test day in only their underwear, Aziraphale dreads the thought of sincerely enjoying  _ The Sound of Music. _ And while demons only have nightmares, thus making the idea of nightmares moot, the worst Crowley has conjured up is the M25 spreading like a virus throughout England, congesting the entire country and bringing Britain to an irreparable standstill.

[7] So long as Aziraphale didn’t interfere with Crowley’s dominance over the houseplants, there was no unrest in the flat. But, the second the plants stopped cowering at the sound of Crowley’s voice echoing outside the door or his keys rattling in their plate just inside the flat, Aziraphale would be looking for a new place to stay.

[8] And while he can’t see the future, he can imagine raw fish, rice, and wasabi splattered across his backseat, which is more than enough initiative to not toss it.

[9] And, by default, it was by Queen.

[10] Perhaps “Never Tear Us Apart” was a better fit, but it wasn’t written by Queen, so Crowley hadn’t heard it.

[11] If there’s one thing the spirit of Freddie Mercury is dedicated to, it’s getting a demon to finally admit 6000 years of longing affection to his angelic best friend.

[12] He also extends this favour to angels.

[13] Crowley hadn’t bothered to look up how to change songs, so Spotify would just be an app used to play “I Was Born to Love You” from now on.

[14] For this specific scenario, about 23 times since he’d gotten the Bentley.

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully this format isn’t totally unbearable, but i thought it’d be fun to make it more authentically good omens.


End file.
